You’re not in the boxes stored in the garage, filled with clothes and trinkets and whatever could be grabbed out of your room. You are not in the storage unit we gave up without looking inside. You’re not in the bills you left behind. You’re not in your money, divided, moved, and settled. You’re not in the photos I kept. You’re not in the unsorted memories you didn’t know you left.
You’re a wisp of smoke, a movement almost unseen, a passing cloud, the snow that melts before it falls on the walkway.
I can’t touch you or hear you or see you.
It’s Valentine’s Day.
published on Medium
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